Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(83)
“Sure, I’ll take a water,” I sigh. He reaches in and pulls out a small bottle, wiping the condensation away with a towel on the counter before handing it to me. I hold it up, clutched in my hand, and smile tightly before whispering a sarcastic “Thanks.”
Carl pulls the top from his and guzzles about half down before setting the bottle on the counter behind him. I twist my cap off and move my bottle to my lips, my eyes meeting Carl’s in between drinks. I shuffle my feet, readying myself for Carl to show me out.
“I couldn’t lose them both,” he says. I startle a little, not expecting any more answers from him. I lower my brow, but wait for him to give me more. “I knew Kate was sick when we moved here. We were hoping for a better prognosis, and had been seeing new doctors in the city. But their answers were all the same.”
He relaxes into the counter behind him, his hands finding the edge and squeezing as he looks up to the ceiling. When his eyes fall back down to mine, they’re red and glassy. “I couldn’t lose them both, Andrew. And I was afraid if Emma stayed with you—”
“You were afraid I’d ruin her,” I finish for him. My eyes shut with the realization, with my delivery of the sentence and final act of what went wrong between me and Emma Burke.
“It’s not about your family, Andrew. I know what you’re thinking, and don’t. It isn’t about that—it never was,” he says.
My gut tells me he’s lying.
“When we got the call to pick her up that night at the police station, our world was rocked. She was this close…this close…to having a fresh start, to having a chance,” he says, his lips a hard line, the rest of what he wants to say only a breath away. I stare into his eyes and dare him. “You were drunk, and you were high, Andrew. Drunk…and high!”
I roll my shoulders and take his condemnation. I nod slowly, my lips forcing themselves into a defensive smile and eventually a chuckle. I look down to the side as I reach into my pocket for my keys.
“Says the Woodstock Town Police report,” I seethe.
“They convicted you, Andrew. A year in detention…”
“Ah…reform school,” I correct smugly, holding one finger up. I shake my head at him, my insides feeling as if I’ve just gone a round in the ring. I open my mouth, but I’m smart enough to know that whatever I say next, if I speak right now, it won’t be nice. So I close my lips instead and hold up my water to him. “I’m gonna take this with me, for the road, if that’s okay?”
I turn and move to the door, not expecting his steps behind me. He’s several paces back, and I know he’s relieved to know I’m leaving. My thoughts dart to so many possibilities—racing one minute to the lost opportunities I had with Emma then quickly to everything she was probably told. The questions boil fast, and before I reach for the latch on the screen, I stop.
“I just need to know…did you tell Emma that I was drunk and high? Or did you keep that to yourself, too?” His face is ghost white, a mix of shame and indignant self-righteousness. “You know what? Never mind…I’ll ask her myself.”
I see him lurch toward me just before I close the door behind me. I don’t know if he followed me. My pace was swift back to my car, and I never once glanced back at the broken house and broken man I was leaving.
* * *
I cashed in one more sick day for my trip to Emma’s dad’s this morning. But my face was already returning to normal. My only class today was mathematic theory, and I’ve already completed the practice work and reading, so I gave myself permission to skip that, too. I haven’t missed one yet this semester, so it shouldn’t raise any flags with coach. It’s our off day, but I’ve been itching for the ice. Trent has a full schedule today, though, and he won’t be home until well after five. My boiling blood won’t wait that long, so after an hour pacing our apartment and throwing a racquetball against the wall to the point that one of our senior neighbors came over to ask me to “stop the partying,” I head to Harley’s gym.
The place is hopping for the middle of the day, so I work in with one of the regulars. I spend an hour not talking, only rushing my taped fists into another guy’s gloves and chest. He pops me in the jaw a few times, but the familiar heat that usually accompanies it never comes. It seems I’ve been hit so much that I’m finally immune. Or maybe, I’m so angry that it’s going to take more than what this featherweight can serve up to help me.
“Harp, I’m out,” my partner says, slicing his glove in front of his face at his neck. He’s calling it. I frown at him. “Dude, we’ve been going an hour. I come here for the workout, man. But I also have to get my ass to class.”
I nod at him, my hard breathing catching up to me as I lean on the ropes. I pull the tape from one hand and reach my palm out to shake his, pulling the other hand free of tape as he grabs his bag and leaves the gym.
My heart rate feels faster than normal—spikes of adrenaline still pushing through it. I force myself to breathe long and deep, dropping my head into my hands so I can focus and really listen to my rhythm. What a simple thing—a heartbeat.
Emma’s heart…it didn’t do this. Or not…quite like this. I looked up her condition as soon as I got home. I read about the surgeries she probably had when she was young, and then I thought back to how her skin felt the only time I touched it. It was over her bra, and in a dark car—the stolen moments of two teens in lust. I never felt a scar.